Rise and Fall
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: John has a close call, and that's all it takes for Sherlock to reconsider his previous notions about the importance of breathing.


A/N: I tried my hand at something different, and it's a lot more fast-paced than my usual writing. As always, thanks for stopping by ^-^

* * *

A small room, tiny, cramped, old, dusty. Archaic wooden floors screamed and cracked as the detective's  
body crash landed into the splintering surface. Dizzy, wobbly, vision blurred, couldn't move.

John. Sherlock turned to see John with his hands restrained behind his back by the cold grip of a man with a crooked smile.

The assailant, the criminal, the suspect, he laughed, laughed as a shrill cry escaped John's lips, accompanying the sound of the doctors wrist cracking as the man twisted it.

A hand shot out, the criminal wrapped his heavy palm over John's face, covered his mouth and nose.

Stuck, stuck and in pain, Sherlock couldn't move, couldn't help.

And he watched as John fell, fell to his knees, the thud heavy and forced, like a boulder reluctant to crumble its way down a mountain. The assailant fled from peripheral vision, fled from the room, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through Sherlock's veins as he rushed to his doctors side.

John's breathing was slowing, slowing, slower, winding down like a kettle coming to a calm, until it was not even an octave above a whisper. The sound of Sherlock's own breathing was eternally loud in comparison, and he exhaled long and slow, as if the breath would transfer.

He blindly dialed Lestrade, still staring in shock at the silence coming from John's mouth. Never before had silence been so unbarable. Noise is ambiguous; loud, chaotic and uncertain, and there is comfort in uncertainty. Silence is still, lifeless and certain.

* * *

Hospital, white lights, beeps and murmurs and shadows of people.  
Cracked ribs, pain medication, an irritating brother and a concerned detective inspector.  
Sherlock scoffed, scoffed at all of it, turned away, only spoke to ask about John.

* * *

He was dressed, but bandaged underneath. He was quiet, but screaming inside. His mind was shouting  
at the sight of John in the hospital bed as he stood at the foot of it.

John. John, who was asleep with an oxygen mask.  
John, who just the day before couldn't get enough air into his lungs, and had been slipping away in silence in front of Sherlock's eyes.

The detective heard voices, doctors, mumbling about visiting hours, until he felt hands on his shoulders, he was ushered out.

He was told John would be fine. John was fine, he just needed rest and everything was fine. He would be home the next the day, he would be fine.

* * *

Home. home was quiet, John was in his room, resting and being completely fine.

Sherlock paced, in and out of the kitchen, up and down the hallway, paced until he was dizzy.

There were dishes in the sink, unwashed. The kettle was empty. John's laptop was closed and the red armchair was vacant.

Sherlock paced, in and out, up and down.

He stopped short, and suddenly he was there, back in that cramped room, the dust from the floor scraping at the inside of his lungs as he gasped in pain. Suddenly he could hear it, the thud, the dull, lifeless thud of John hitting the ground, then victorious footsteps of an escaped criminal. He could feel the rush again, the rise of energy as he stormed to John's side, and then the fall of his heart as he heard the loudest silence of his life.

Sherlock knew John was still breathing, that he was upstairs, that he was okay, but he needed to see it. He needed to wipe the image of John's seemingly lifeless body clean off his hard drive, and so he headed up the stairs.

He didn't ask permission, he didn't tread lightly, and he didn't need a reason. He was a fox; swift, elusive, determined and cunning. His presence on John's mattress went undetected as his body sunk deep into the fabric.

He was swallowed whole by comfort, like ten thousand downy feathers engulfing his entire form. His eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second, then blinked back open in a flurry of eyelashes. He turned his head to the left. John was sound asleep.

There was no oxygen mask, no beeping, no murmuring and no shadows of strangers. It was only John, John who lay still with the covers wrinkled near his waist, one hand resting gently on his stomach.

Sherlock watched, unabashed, as the doctor's hand subtly rose and fell with each inhale and exhale.

John's breathing was slow and steady, like a rhythm. His heartbeat was the metronome, his breaths were the strings; his body was a chamber orchestra, filling the hollow night with an unnamed melody. All Sherlock did was listen, listen and let himself be captured by the sounds. His eyelids dripped down, drooping lower with each second, becoming heavier with each breath from the doctor, until finally his eyes closed comfortably.

The rise and fall, the in and out, the up and down, it was all he needed, all he ever would.

* * *

A/N: So I suppose breathing's not boring after all ._. Anyway, I know this one was pretty short but I hope you guys liked it anyway, and leaving a review is always an amazing way of letting me know what you thought [: Thanks as always :3


End file.
